Serena Joy's Joyless Viewpoint
by Jean McElroy Dory
Summary: Picking up from the moment intruders crash into her home to arrest her husband, this story continues "The Handmaid's Tale" from Serena Joy's viewpoint.


Serena Joy's Joyless Viewpoint

Dinnertime. May.

All the elaborate trappings we once pulled out only for company, but then we had no servants… It was fun to eat on the run, or on the sofa with our feet guiltily on the coffee table while we watched TV. We talked then. Before Gilead. Fred would get excited about something he was researching, some new product coming to market or some new way to advertise, and though we didn't "talk shop" about what went on in the office per se, he would delight in sharing his new discoveries or accomplishments. Now…there is nothing to share. I have no idea what he is doing. I hope it is administrative, somewhat removed from the self-incriminating horror of condemnations and the revulsion of executions. I feel extraneous, like property.

I poke my food around on the plate. It seems so tasteless. Or have I lost my taste, too? No, I'm simply not hungry. Even hunger seems like too much of an effort when you spend your whole day trying to do absolutely nothing. All senses and emotions become muted. Even "hello" is a forbidden, old form.

I miss him. I miss our talking…about anything. I haven't anything to share with him except comments on the garden or complaints about the servants or perhaps gossip from the women—I don't encounter anything new that would interest him. I don't feel a part of his life. I don't feel I have any use in this world. I hate that it is even prescribed that he knock on the sitting room door to enter, that I can't enter his study, and that we have separate bedrooms. I miss snuggling in on cold nights. Oh, I am sooooo lonely!

I droop my head and stare at the dots of light reflected in my wineglass. Funny, I was famous for the tears I could shed, yet now, with so many tears stifled and withheld, I find myself dry. Dry in my body, dry in my mind, dry, withered, useless, disintegrating… Well, I _do_ cry the night of the Ceremony, dammit! So disgusting, degrading, physically awkward, embarrassing…and wrong! He is _my_ husband! There is more to marriage than making babies! Why must I help him cheat on me? And _participate?_ It takes all my strength and courage not to run out screaming…

God how I hate this "Ceremony" shit! Of _course_ I'm not going to have a child at this age. Why should I be punished for a natural aging process? And Fred…he doesn't seem to enjoy it either. I'm sure he's feeling so pressured. If he doesn't knock someone up soon he will be deemed old and useless and retired. I'd hate him to face that shame.

I wonder if he has forgotten? People can delude themselves, or be in denial… Rumor has it that we never had kids because I had an ego problem and wanted to keep working and being famous. Truth is, I _always_ wanted a baby. And could have had one. It was _Fred_ with the low sperm count. Lord, if that ever came out now—but that was twenty years ago, and those medical records I'm sure have disappeared… How ironic. How cruel to us both to go through this horrid charade month after month. Why can't we grow old in dignity?

I don't feel loved. I don't blame Fred. I don't think I love him any more either—it's too hard to have any time or intimacy together—but I remember what we used to have, and I do still care for him as one of the best friends I've had. I don't want him hurt. And, yeah, there's that "to death do us part" thing… What will become of us if he is "retired"? Where will we go? What would we do? Would we even be allowed to be together?

We make the obligatory polite gestures of parting and leave the table. I head to my room, unfilled, unfulfilled.

() () () ()

Late afternoon. July.

My favorite time. The light is slanting, the grass and trees look so green, the lawn is all dappled. I sit in my chair in the yard and daydream…

 _This_ "Offred". Had a pretty wild mom, as I recall. Women's rights and all that stuff. I wonder how Offred _truly_ feels? Is she reliable, truly convinced of the cause? She has been severed from husband and child. Must be tough. And to then have to prostitute herself like this? I don't know if I could do it. Guess it's better than the Colonies or being Unwoman. Still. HOW COULD SHE? I hate her, I hate everything she stands for, I hate having her in my home screwing my own husband.

Still, I do feel guilty for how I take my disgust and hatred out on her, pulling her arms, making a scene, not letting her even rest. I know I should give her ten minutes for the sperm to swim upstream, but…why bother with that low motility? I just want it over with, everyone out, before I scream or explode or _really_ get dangerous. Does _anyone_ realize what torture this whole stinking process is for us wives? Just present us with the kid, dammit, and don't make us go through the whole conception and birth drama! They think the wives get drunk at a birth because we're celebrating. If only they knew we're commiserating with the new foster mom for having to watch the birth and trying to block out the whole stinking unnatural process.

But…I really want that baby! Everyone is starting to suspect it's Fred's fault—he's so distracted and overworked and tense, and he's getting up there in age. All this crap about it's only the woman's fault. Bullroar! We've known about low sperm counts for how many decades? Haloooo? This isn't the first Handmaid. How many more will he be allowed before they can him?

What gives with this low birth rate, anyway? Don't they get it? A Commander goes through Handmaid after Handmaid with no luck, then they go to other Commanders and Bingo! Happening all around Gilead. Don't they see it's the _men?_ Then why on earth do they make all us women suffer for it?

I don't know, but something's going on I bet, something titillating he's trying with Offred, like last time. Fred thinks a little more personal contact, a little more "romance" will do the trick. Hasn't yet! Makes me burn with, ok, jealousy I guess. Although…I do understand his wishful thinking. And…if it works? A baby would keep hub going, label him as young and viral. And I could get rid of the curse of Handmaids in my home and all the yuck that comes with that horrible practice! We _need_ a baby, just to keep going…

Ohhh, who the hell am I kidding?

And…I sigh and lean back, relishing the gentle movement of the tree leaves above me and the soft breeze on my face…ok, I really _want_ the damned baby. I'd have respectability again, I'd be somebody. I'd have something to _do_ , someone to talk to, someone to fuss over and care for and care about. Some little being to love me. I wouldn't have to sit still and be quiet and be NOTHING. This is driving me _insane…_

Ok, I'll do it. Maybe it'll condemn us all, but…hell, we'll probably all get purged for sneezing at the wrong time, anyway. Nick—now there's a strange one. So cocky, not like most of the Guardians. Someone his age should be fighting. Bet he's an Eye. Yet…he's willing to break the law, take risks. What would I do without his help getting my black market cigs and Lily of the Valley perfume? I have that on him, too, so can ask him for more…. Yup. He's hot. Tempted to call in his services myself. Ha! What am I _thinking?_ As if I could produce anything at this age. Hmmmm. I bet _he_ could get that trollop preg in no time at all! Don't think he'd mind much, either.

() () () ()

Night. Later in the month.

"Serena Joy". Ha! I am _far_ from serene and I can't remember the last time I felt joy… I am Thelma! I _was_ Thelma…(309) How I miss the rush of performing on TV! Of course, I miss being _young_ most of all, but...it was such FUN! Watching people react to my simultaneous tears and smiles, seeing them start to _feel_. No one can show feelings any more! How much better it was to have "freedom to" than this "freedom from"! To wear clothes of different colors? Shocking! To shop for something frivolous? To hold property, have a job, or to have my own money? I earned a damned good salary back then… To _laugh?_ To…be? Someone?

For a moment I permit myself to drift. I'm in the wings, near the light crew, someone dabbing at my face with a huge puff and another poking at my hair. Such pretty blonde hair I had then, and all natural. Then. I did hit the dye thing by the time I was giving speeches. Now? Now? I'm gray, colorless, sunken, unnoticeable. Yet…I thought when Offred passed through that time there was that flicker of recognition I used to bristle at but down deep sorta loved—that "oh, you're _famous!"_ look. I miss being applauded…

Such a rush, hearing my name, then feeling as well as hearing that surge of approval as I walked (trying to look dutiful and humble) to the mike. THAT was being truly alive. And though I did fake the tears often, some were real. I really did _feel_ the love of God, the empathy for mankind, all the possible goodness. Back then. I felt God gave me some dramatic ability I could use for Him. And it sure felt good. I didn't realize how much I was being used, manipulated, especially as the rebellion grew. I just thought all those audiences loved me…

And then those speeches. That was a dangerous, exciting time. Though I always felt like such a hypocrite, talking about the joys of the stay-at-home wife when I definitely was _not_. Now I am condemned to the life I preached, and it is such a living hell… Had I had fought for this? No, I fought because the world was becoming so ecologically unbalanced, so insensitive, so selfish, so unsafe. Was it truly? Could we not have fixed it without going back to ancient beliefs? I wonder… No, I fought for a more moral, Christian-minded land. Not an authoritarian one. This isn't Christian. This is wrong.

I see a flick of light across the yard through my back window. They're at it again, I bet! There's a stir of excitement, thinking how my arrangement with Offred and Nick has worked so well, but there's a tinge of jealousy and disgust, too. No, I'm too old to want sex, but it sure would be fun to have some foreplay again. But she's _married_! AND a Handmaid. The slut. The completely amoral, disgusting slut… Who'd have thought her the risk-taking, horny type? And if anyone _else_ finds out? At least when I arranged it I covered for them…

Funny, too, her reaction to her daughter's picture. I thought I was rewarding her, doing her a favor. I guess I sorta wanted her to like me. We'd never be friends, but it would be nice if we could at least _talk_ once in a while. She had an intelligent directness to her. I wonder if that would be allowed? Anyway—she just recoiled. Was there something she saw that she didn't like? Was she afraid to show feelings? I thought she'd be so thrilled to see the kid was alive and well, and even looks a bit like her…

() () () ()

Morning.

I clump down into my chair with a whoosh and creakingly raise my left foot to the footstool as I instinctively reach for my needles. Why do I knit such intricate scarves for the "Angels"?

Angels, yeah, right. Why is some guy an angel just because he carries a gun to kill our former countrymen? Why should he be praised for zealous religious discrimination? I pity his austere life and the fears and dangers he encounters, but I'd hardly think he is a heavenly spirit doing God's will.

I laugh to myself. I get a perverse pleasure from fancy knitting. It reminds me of my Irish grandmother, who taught me. I'd never _dare_ admit to any Irish blood now—that seems to ring of Catholics, and they're ENEMY. Geesh.

But also, I must admit, I knit intricate patterns because it is one of the few ways I can totally escape. If I were to do just the simple stockinet or ribbing they suggest, I'd certainly turn out many times more scarves. But that kind of knitting is mindless, and I don't want to let my mind wander. It hurts too much to dream any more. I do these patterns because I must count and concentrate. It dulls the pain a bit. Yeah, it's escape. And it keeps these arthritic fingers from locking up entirely…

I look around this lovely "sitting" room dispassionately. It still doesn't feel like home, even though many of our things are here from our _real_ house out in Concord. Nothing matches. I have to admit I _enjoy_ creating a little discord in the decoration—makes me feel like I have some power over _something._ How I miss the woods nearby, the neighbors, jumping in the car to go somewhere, trying new recipes, feeling useful keeping the house. Oh, all right, I was a lousy housekeeper who had a maid when I was making it big and we ate out lots. Still, it was _ours_.

I wonder who the former owners were? These Brattle Street homes are so lovely. Must have been rich, probably old Yankee blood. Maybe some super-successful Harvard prof with a consulting biz bringing in gazillions? Maybe a Boston financier? Were there children? Were the folks here happy? I bet there was laughter once, and parties…

I drop the needles lifelessly in my lap and reach for a cigarette. I blow perfect smoke rings, trying to blow one inside another like my dad did… I twirl my cigarette in the ashtray, gently rubbing off the burned ash. Funny, my grandmother did that—she said women twirled and men flicked; women held the butt between tips of forefinger and next, so that only the fingertips extended to the lips, while men held the butt down nearer the hand, so that the fingers cupped the face from nose to jaw. Silly, I guess, but I always did that… It _did_ seem more ladylike!

God, I shouldn't smoke like this. It gives me a headache, I hate the taste, and the rush up behind the ears and occasional lightheaded feeling are dreadful. Maybe it's a death wish. It would almost be sort of fun to be sick most of the time, party each day! And to die and get out of this hell-hole. But…who wants the pain? I jab the cig out fiercely…

Lord, I'm stiff this morning. If only I could _do_ something! Be active! Swim at the Y, walk each morning with friends, work out at a gym. All this sitting and wasting time just isn't good for this old bod. And though the gardening is my favorite outlet, that's getting painful now, too, as that ol' knee just doesn't want me kneeling and the back doesn't like to bend. It's so hard to get up from the ground—I'd be embarrassed to have them see me!

Still, there is peace there. It is outside, there are birds and other creatures who do not know the country has gone crazy and don't care. I envy them, able to flit around anywhere, unchallenged. Sure miss this in the winter… And to weed and snip and prune, to pinch off the blooms before they start so the plant grows twice as many, that's like helping with re-birth, rejuvenation, growth. Feels like that's the _only_ new life in this old place…

() () () ()

I've run out of cigarettes. In my addiction, I start to panic. Didn't I hide some way back in the attic closet with my winter things? How can I get up there without anyone noticing, hearing me tapping with my cane and puffing? Got to, got to…

Ok. Think I made it undetected. Should be back here, behind these. Ooof! Heavy! Ok, there's the wool dresses. Lord, how I wish I could wear something other than BLUE! Yes, I always liked blue because of the way it brought out the color of my eyes, but enough is enough. I'm so SICK of wearing the same old same old! The heavy stockings, the hats, the cape. Wahoo! What the…? DAMN! Oh, no! Not again! Why does he _do_ that?

Does Fred _really_ think a whore house will change things? Does he do it to look virile? The tramp! But no, I guess I really can't blame _her._ It wasn't her idea or her plan or even her choice. She wouldn't have known such a place still existed. She _had_ no choice, poor kid… Still, I feel so, so, so-yoosh! I guess I feel neglected, left out, washed up, discarded, betrayed… I slump against the old chest in the corner, totally defeated. Mindless, unmoving, devoid of feeling. I don't know how long I've been here—maybe ten minutes?

I suppose I _have_ to make a scene, but this time I won't report it. This girl is working out pretty well. Let's give it a month or two… Ohhhh, this is all so exhausting. And disgusting. I sit here on the floor in the dim light, in the heat and musty air, eyes closed, and silently recite to myself some of the old forbidden prayers…

() () () ()

Later the same night.

I confront Fred for, oh, maybe a half hour. Trying to sound angry, offended, righteous. So little energy for doing so. It was tough enough trying to intimidate the girl. I'll have to deal with some punishment for _her_ later. I try to muster my old skills at crying and tearing hearts out… I shouldn't dump on Fred so, but man! He took a risk! He endangered us all! And…we ARE still married, right? Doesn't anyone think of MY feelings any more? I wish…

What's that scuffling in the hall? Guardians? Here? Are they after Fred? What could they accuse him of? They're usually pretty lenient about whore houses…

Instinctively I try to step in front of Fred. Yeah, right, as if I could protect him! Why, they're taking Offred! What has she done? What has she told? "State secrets?" That can mean anything nowadays, but if she endangered Fred, if she exposed anyone in this house, if she…

Oh, dear God, what is happening? HOW COULD SHE?

An invisible hand chokes my breath—is it my fault? Did someone find out about her and Nick? Why oh why did I get them into that? Well, of course, I didn't mean for it to become a routine thing—I only meant it for that time of the month, with me on guard. They have been a bit too brazen…

She had such a glow to her lately, too. I was _soooo_ hoping she is pregnant! I wonder…was the glow love? Maybe, but I was so sure, so hoping!

It's Nick scuttling her out with the two Eyes. HOW COULD HE? After all those nights together, how could he turn her in? And how could he run the risk of our being questioned, also? He is endangering _himself,_ too. Probably thinks he has to. Must know others know whatever it is others know! Wonder if he has any feelings for her at all?

Silence. It's over. They've gone. "Fred, do you know what is happening? Did you report her? Has she done something terrible? Do you know _anything_?" He stands there, looking totally beaten, shaking his head, and doesn't even look up at me. Finally a tiny voice chokes out of him, "I haven't a clue. I don't know a damned thing anymore." Fred goes to his study, a bent, defeated, old man, probably to drink. Certainly to mourn what he hoped could be. Wish he would have/could have stayed with me. Once we would have talked this all out, comforted each other. Now we don't trust anyone, even our spouses. What a way to live… What a way to _die_ slowly and painfully within…

I sink into my chair, too exhausted to think or feel or cry or even bother to breathe.

() () () ()

Morning.

I awaken with a start when something in the kitchen clangs. Must've fallen asleep after all, right here in the sitting room. No one even noticed… Disoriented, beaten, confused. Sense of dread. Why? Oh, yeah. The Offred thing. I don't even want to think about that now. I rest (though it's hard to say "rest" when you're this stiff) and try to collect my thoughts. Try to plan, to project. Only terrifying scenarios present themselves. For now, I guess I can do nothing but wait. See if it all blows over, case dismissed, and face the prospect of a new Offred… New woman to tolerate and hate and break in. Won't be as respectful as Offred…oh, hell, why can't they even have a name? Even a fictional one they'd hate, like "Serena Joy" is for me? Just so we could tell them apart? "Of Fred." Not even a person. Just….property of someone's husband.

Absently rubbing the angry white lump on my third finger. Damned arthritis. At least _all_ the joints don't flare up at once… And yes, I AM totally out of coffin nails. I catch a glimpse of Clara in the hall. "Clara, could you find Nick for me? There is an errand I'd like him to do for me the next time he takes the car out." Clara inches forward, as if afraid I would clobber her over the head. Long silence. I do believe she is trying to stifle a sob! I wait, impatience welling within me. "Get Nick, please?" Clara gulps, a wracking, coughing gasp for air and voice, her body visibly quaking.

"Nick's gone." "WHAT?" "There was no sign of him this morning. The Commander has tried to find and contact him, but…no response. Last we saw, he was getting into that black van. No one has seen him since." "Oh, I see. Well. Hmmm. Well, perhaps there was paperwork, or something, to turn her over. Or maybe…" My voice trails off as I think with a start that maybe he has been caught in the act with Offred. But no, he _was_ the one arresting her. "Please when he returns send him to me."

() () () ()

Night.

In my room, but no chance of sleeping. I sit in the uncomfortable chair in the corner, too tense to lie down. I am frantic. Where the hell is Nick? He hasn't returned all day. He isn't sick, Fred has sought him, he's breaking rules! I twitch. I painfully cross and re-cross my legs. I can't even concentrate to knit. How I would love to be able to pace! Or scream! Or break something! What I'd give to just jump in a car and drive fast to the ocean. Or anywhere… And how strange that the wives are avoiding me. I would think _one_ of them would know something. Why are they afraid to tell me? We giggle and gossip together about _other_ people but never open up ourselves. It is too dangerous to let anyone know what we might possibly think. Why am I always so ALONE?

I hear tires in the drive. Maybe it's Nick! It takes me awhile to get to the front window, but…oh, my God! It's a black van! All that shouting, all those men! What is it this time? Oh, no, oh, no, oh holy god, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph no! They're hustling _Fred_ out! And they haven't closed the van door. Two of the Eyes are coming back in!

I look frantically about. No, fire would work too slowly. No way I can run or hide. Maybe I can…I snatch at the billowing white around my canopy bed, too sheer to hold real weight. No, no, that wouldn't work. Perhaps…you idiot, no! But what? I dash to the open window, looking at the pavement two stories below. Maybe I can, if I could just get these old fingers to grab the little catches on the screen right. OUCH! Damn, finger's bleeding. They're coming! I can hear them on the stairs! I stretch and push and try to ignore all the pain everywhere. I am driven by desperation and the flood of adrenalin to be far stronger than I would have expected. There! Screen up! Now if I can just step there on the dressing table stool, kneel there on the widow sill, pretend I'm diving into a pool… Do it, Thelma, do it! Dear God, please help us all? Deep breath, lean, push…

4222 words


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